


It Runs In The Family

by DixieDale



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Some Descriptions of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: During a time of personal disillusionment, Napoleon Solo has the opportunity to consider the issues of heroism, dedication, sacrifice, and the capacity for love.  It won't bring him all the answers he was looking for.  But maybe it would give him a glimpse of things from a different angle, as well as bring him something else to consider - did certain qualities, certain traits indeed run in the family, even family-by-choice?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	It Runs In The Family

"I just wish I understood what it all meant, Illya. Knew whether we were making a difference, doing any good at all. Was he right? Are we the bad guys? All of us, I mean. I always thought, always saw us as the good guys, the heroes, battling the bad guys. Are THEY the good guys, the real heroes? Was he right?"

"Thrush? I can assure you, Napoleon, they are not 'the good guys', as you term it," Illya frowned at his partner, puzzled at the whole conversation.

"No, that's not what I meant. THEM, the Innocents. The ones going about their lives, going to work every day, whether it's cutting hair, or selling clothes, or teaching kids, or whatever. The ones who don't break the law, who try to do right by others, try to just make it through another day, taking care of their families, their communities."

Illya had never seen his partner this down, this discouraged, wondering if they were actually doing any good, or just deluding themselves. That lecture by the dying Dr. Meadows had an impact even on Illya, of course, but nothing like what it had on Napoleon. 

Well, it had been hard on them both, these past few months. Thrush seemed to be winning. KAOS, under the leadership of that mysterious unidentified new Chairman, whoever he was, had started dividing their efforts between CONTROL and UNCLE to better outcomes than would have been expected for an organization with a reputation for colossal blunders. And then there had been more independent moves by upstart 'powers of evil' than really should have been allowed in a fair world. Of course, Illya knew better than most that the world is not, never had been fair, and saw little reason to be optimistic that things would change all that much.

One reason for the senior partner's current mood was perhaps less obvious to anyone who didn't know him quite as well as Illya. Yes, for a man, an agent, who thought he had things thoroughly thought out, it had been a crushing blow to his self-assurance, the increase in bodies he could not dismiss by pinning on the label of 'bad guy'. It had been equally crushing to realize that was what he'd been doing all the while, pinning labels, as if the labels erased the fact of a human life being lost. Or rather, perhaps, he had been mentally assigning any loss of life as the responsibility of someone else, that ever-present 'bad guy' in the form of THRUSH, or someone else. THEY. Thrush, KAOS, whoever - the bad buys were responsible for any loss of an Innocent, never Napoleon or Illya. No, they were the heroes, the good guys - they bore none of the responsibility.

Now, that was changing, or at least his perception was changing, and it was changing him, despite himself. 

Now, too many Innocents had become involved, too many he had seen first hand; not all had survived the interaction, including those caught in the most recent turmoil when the UNCLE agents encountered the Thrush operatives in that small town in New England. 

The gravely, even fatally wounded, young Doctor Meadows' bitter assessment of the body count, his own soon to be included, had been addressed to the two bruised but basically unbloodied UNCLE agents and the three slightly more damaged Thrush operatives in their custody. 

"Whatever you are playing at, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, white hats versus black hats - damn you and all your games! There should be arenas set up out in the desert somewhere for you to get your jollies, your kicks; anywhere but in towns where people are just trying to live their lives as best they can. Damn you all!"

Seven Innocents dead in the aftermath - Doctor Meadows, two women and a child getting treatment in his now destroyed clinic, three men just passing by on the street. Yes, it was enough to give one pause.

And that wasn't all. Their fellow agents had suffered a harder fate than usual recently, some surviving, yes, but not all. Mark Slate and April Dancer were among the lucky ones, but were still being treated for their injuries. And wasn't Waverly pissed about that, and making no bones about it. Although the facts and testimony from the local UNCLE office in Sicily clearly bore out their reports, Waverly still laid the blame for the young woman's injuries to 'negligence' on the part of her partner, Mark Slate, no matter Mark's own injuries taken in the battle and in the subsequence rescue of his captured partner. It had taken considerable effort on the part of Solo and Kuryakin to make Waverly grudgingly stand down from his position, but they could tell he bore them considerable ill will for stepping in between. 

And, while the Old Man understood the need for recovery time, he would have been far happier with April doing HER recovery in that small office down the hall from his, not off with her partner in wherever private med center the local UNCLE office had stashed them. 

Without Mark Slate, his favorite chew toy, to rag on, Waverly had turned his jaundiced eyes, and snarly temper, to Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, finding fault with every aspect of their work, their appearance, and even, it seemed, their existence, and while Kuryakin had just shrugged it off, the senior agent was taking it far too seriously in his partner's opinion. Illya thought that was part, along with everything else, of what had his partner on his current downward spiral. Well, the senior agent was accustomed to being quite the fair-haired boy in Waverly's eyes; his current reception would have been difficult to accept.

Now, the call from the sheriff of a middle-of-nowhere town in southern Missouri about the death of a relative Napoleon hadn't thought about in years seemed to pull the man even farther into the depths. He didn't have enough to deal with, now there was the dealing with the last affairs of his Aunt Josephine, his father's younger sister - half-sister, maybe? Now, he couldn't remember which, and didn't know why he'd been tapped on the shoulder, not his father, since his grandparents were now deceased. Still, the sheriff had been adamant that it was indeed Napoleon Solo who'd been called for, no one else.

"Your Aunt Josephine? I do not remember your speaking of an Aunt Josephine. Was that another example of your grandfather's obsession with the Emperor Bonaparte?" Illya asked, not so much as to learn the answer but as to break the increasingly uncomfortable silence.

"What? Oh, yes, probably. Just about everything else in his life was, anyway. I still can't figure out why my father was named Calvin, though perhaps the obsession came along AFTER my father was born. I believe Josephine was quite a bit younger. And no, I doubt I ever mentioned her. She disappeared, a very long time ago. There was some scandal, I think, though I never heard the details. I guess I thought she was dead, back then maybe, though I don't know what gave me that idea in particular. Something my parents said, probably."

The senior agent sat there, thinking, unhappy puzzling over this unwelcome chore now dropped in his lap. Finally he sighed and picked up the phone. Getting time off to handle a personal matter wasn't going to be all that difficult; the medical side had been urging Napoleon to get some time off anyway, warning of potential burnout, had been pressuring Waverly to insist on that time away.

"I will accompany you, of course," Illya said, no hesitation in his voice. Napoleon was grateful for that, would appreciate the company. Still, tying up loose ends for a deceased relative, even one he had never met, at least that he could remember, wasn't something he was looking forward to. 

The sheriff, a man in his sixties by appearance, was somber, uncomfortable with the task that had been given to him, that much was obvious. These two were not what he had been expecting. The nephew, this Napoleon Solo, was dressed in a fancy suit and tie, and shoes so highly polished you could see yourself in them. The other, the one who talked funny, even he was in a suit, not nearly as fancy and without a tie, but still a suit, which just wasn't the usual around this small town. Odd, he thought, to be family for the woman he remembered as always wearing well-worn work jeans and a loose shirt and boots. {"Long sleeves, summer or winter. And gloves, whether the heavy work gloves or thin ones, but I don't recall ever seeing her with bare hands. Strange one, alround, Miz Jo, but there's aplenty would say the same about Aunt Abby and Uncle Morgan, I suppose."} Still, he'd promised, he had his job to do and solemnly did so, giving the men, this Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, all he could.

"Miz Jo, she kept to herself mostly. Polite enough when you'd meet her at the store or somewhere, but she didn't go searching you out much, was known for being maybe a little shy. She wasn't much for anyone trying to mind her business, though, and was willing to stick up for herself; been known to run off any nozy-parkers with a shotgun. Mostly folks left her alone, and she seemed fine with that. But there were a few who knew her a little better, kept an eye out, especially since my aunt and uncle passed on. When Miz Taylor over at the store got a little worried, called me to remark the supplies Miz Jo had ordered had been sitting for the past couple of days, I decided to mozy on out, take them to her, maybe see if she was taken sick, or if that old truck had finally give up the ghost.

"When I got there - well, I told you on the phone what I found. Her, just sitting in that rocking chair on the front porch, that letter box on her lap. Looks like she died peaceful, from what I could tell, probably during the night before from the looks of things. 

"Had papers in an envelope with my name on it, what she wanted to have happen. Well, it's not so usual anymore, not since the town's growed enough to have a proper cemetery and all, but there's no rule against it, so she's buried out there, right along with the others, and there's more than a few of them. Hadn't been out there much, not since my aunt passed on, but there's no missing it - place out back but within sight of the porch; path worn down so's you could tell it was walked regular. All fenced off with that rail fence, nice and tidy, like she'd been tending to that regular, too. Morning glories, those little single red roses, lots of other stuff here and there to brighten the place up. 

"Recognized the names, mostly anyways, even to that big critter they called a horse, though I always had my doubts, and a few I think was dogs, least the names sounded like they could be. There was one or two names I didn't know, Benjamin Beauman and Jean Beauman, brother and sister looks like, and right next to that last one was where your aunt said she was to buried. Already had the grave dug out, if you can believe that! AND the coffin sitting right alongside. Made that herself, told me so in that letter, along with the marker. Funny, don't know I ever knew her last name, not til then. She was always just 'Miz Jo'."

The man paused, looking at them carefully, then coming to a decision.

"And I know it's probably not something to decide right now, but that's good farmland, got its own water even in dry spells. There's those who'd be willing to buy it at a fair price."

He'd not thought to say that, especially this early on, hadn't seemed respectful. Besides, he'd figured the nephew might want to settle on the old farm, but taking another look at the fancy suit and shoes, the manicured nails, he just couldn't see that happening. It was a shame, of course. That farm had been in the same family for a hell of a long time; it would be sad to see it go to someone who wouldn't show the proper respect to those graves. He even thought about maybe buying it himself, him having just a small place in town, but money was tight, and he expected the price the nephew would want would be well out of what he could scrape together. Shame; he had a lot of good memories of that place, his aunt and uncle having given him full rein of the place to fish that pond whenever he liked.

The sheriff gave them directions, told them they couldn't really miss it, "only place out in that direction, unless you drive clear over to the next county", and after stopping at the small local store for some basic food supplies, they drove through the dusty countryside in silence. It wasn't difficult to find. Illya had gotten out and opened the old gate made of metal pipes that closed off the lane that eventually led to the old farmhouse, and they sat there taking in the sight. Old, yes. Probably built on to more than once. Well-maintained, though, even a fairly recent coat of paint, and the roof looked sound, the windows sparkling clean. Flowers in a clump by the front steps, rocking chairs on the front porch to one side of the door, small table set in between.

"It looks like it's waiting for us," Illya remarked, getting a skeptical look from Napoleon. Seeing that, the Russian gave a small smile of rueful acknowledgement; yes, it had been an odd thing to say perhaps, but it had been true. "Some houses, when they are empty, they FEEL empty, abandoned, sad. Some, especially those with death so recent, they scream that to the senses, sending a cold chill to the heart. This one, though, it is simply waiting, almost apprehensively, it would seem. Somehow - hopeful, perhaps; hoping it will like us, that we will like it."

"Illya, sometimes your Russian romanticism DOES run away with you," Napoleon said affectionately. "Well, I suppose it's better you think it's hopeful, not screaming at us. That's something anyway. I'm not sure I could handle screaming right now."

They parked near the old truck that was possibly older than either of them, mounted the sturdy wooden steps onto the broad front porch and carried their bags, including the groceries, inside. Napoleon looked around for a few moments, looking at what he could see through the several wooden windows flanked with heavy shutters, curtained with blue and white checked curtains. Illya focused on the carved wooden box on the battered kitchen table, right where the sheriff had left it. 

Then they sought out the enclosed graveyard the sheriff had told them about. 

Yes, there it was. 'Jo Solo, Faithful and Loving Wife'. The sheriff had told them that had been all ready, the marker, placed on top of the waiting coffin. Next to her was another grave, this one with a matching carved marker proclaiming 'Jean Beauman, Beloved Wife, Devoted Sister'. On the other side of that one was one for 'Benjamin Beauman, Beloved Brother to Jean'. Others with names unknown to Napoleon, names the sheriff hadn't mentioned except that he knew them.

"The letter box the Sheriff spoke of is inside; there is a letter for you on top, I presume from your aunt. He also left the one she'd addressed to him, most likely to let you know he was following her instructions when he buried her here instead of the cemetery closer to town. There were other things, pictures, what looked like a journal, perhaps. It would appear she was well-organized, well-prepared for your arrival."

Napoleon nodded. He would read the letter, of course, though he didn't feel up to anything more, not yet, not today, not tonight. There was something odd about this place, something - familiar? A smell? The way things looked? Just an inexplicable feeling, but it caused the hair on the nape of his neck to ruffle, though not in a way that made him think of danger, more a hint of remembering, though remembering what, he had no idea. 

He was starting to wonder if his romantic Russian wasn't rubbing off on him; he had never used to get 'feelings' about places before. His parents would have been appalled. 

Well, they would have been appalled at Illya in many ways; it was probably better neither were around to be offended. 

Oh, they were both still alive, but he'd kept his distance since he became an agent. That was standard procedure, both for their safety, as well as to remove any professional vulnerability on his part, any 'hostages to fortune'; they'd understood the necessity, and frankly, none of the three of them seemed to feel the lack of contact too deeply. 

An occasional letter, perhaps two or three a year, in either direction, very perfunctory - 'hello, how are you, I'm fine.' Well, really, what did they have to talk about? He certainly couldn't share his life with them, and they had accepted the necessity of not sharing theirs with him, even if they had been inclined. A Christmas card - not every year, but most years, if he was where he could send one without making the trail obvious, he did so; he usually received one in return, sent to that pass-through address. He sent a fancy box of candy via a service in London for Mother's Day each year, an expensive silk tie via an Italian haberdashery for Father's Day. 

He would receive a birthday card sometimes, but three or four years ago he noticed they were arriving later and later, obviously an after-thought. He could picture the conversation around the tea cups.  
"Wasn't it Napoleon's birthday last week? Or was that last month? Did we send a card?" 

"Oh, yes, I suppose it was. No, I'll pick one up the next time I'm at the shops."

He supposed he should have found it lonely, and perhaps he had in some ways, at least before Illya. Oh, he'd had an active social life - some, INCLUDING Illya, would have called that a vast understatement considering the number of women he squired here and there, bedding as many of them as possible. Bedding, but never spending the night, if that encounter indeed was at night, time of day never meaning all that much in his pursuit of - whatever he was in pursuit of, other than the pure animal need for sex. 'Before', yes, obviously he had to be there, involved for that; women expected that. Somehow they didn't appreciate you waltzing through the door and immediately guiding them to the bedroom. Usually there was dinner, or dancing, or the theatre, sometimes all three; a necessary thing, and not totally unenjoyable most of the time, he did admit. 'During', there was no question his attendance and his attention was required. But after? What reason could he possibly have for staying there AFTER? Luckily, none - or at least, very few of the women protested, and the ones who did, he never dated again.

He'd never understood why anyone would, actually - want to stay, after. He knew his father and mother had always had their own bedrooms at separate ends of the hall, and he remembered hearing the footsteps in the night, knowing his father was making the trip to that separate room - then, not too long after, he would hear the same footsteps making their steady way back to that room down the hall. That made sense - then. Had made sense until - - -

He glanced over at Illya, who was carefully reading all the names on the markers, the Russian taking time to look into the distance at the pond, the orchard, the fields and, closer to the house, what was obviously a well-kept kitchen garden. With Illya, for some reason, he was fine with spending the night. In fact, he craved it, felt bereft if it were impossible or impractical for some reason, ever more as time went on.

At first, after they'd become bed partners, lovers, in addition to being working partners, after the Meadowfield affair, he'd thought it was merely habit. After all, in the field, on a job, they'd stretched out next to each other more times than he could begin to recall, catching what sleep they could in between the intrigue and bullets and speeding car chases. Then he'd gradually come to realize there was more to it, a rightness to having Illya close to him as he slept, when he awoke. Not just a willingness to stay after the sex, after the loving, but a UNwillingness to leave. As if the 'after' was just as important as the 'before' and the 'during'. That had never been the case with him before, even with Clara, the one woman he'd thought he loved.

The sun had gone around the sky one time fully since they arrived. Now Napoleon stood on the scuffed boards of the open porch, looking out across the fields. He'd been sitting in that wooden rocking chair only moments ago, the journal open on the table beside him. He'd finished it, then gone back to reread that last few pages. If it was real, any of it, not just a woman's wild imaginings, it was a story that seemed utterly foreign to this simple, quiet place. A story that fit a lot better, at least parts of it, in the world, the work, he'd temporarily left behind in New York. Yet, there was sufficient evidence to point to it being true - a great deal of evidence.

Illya had read the journal the afternoon and evening before, by lamplight as the outside light dimmed; Napoleon just hadn't been ready yet. 

He had spent that time wandering the silent house, using his training to pick up any clues of this woman who'd summoned him to tidy up the stray ends of her life. The closets were few, and mostly empty. The one in the room that seemed to belong to his Aunt Jo - No, he couldn't keep calling her that, there was no feeling of reality about that. Better, the room that belonged to Miz Jo - yes, that fit better. 

A battered painted wooden bed, a double, with handstitched quilt and sturdy cotton sheets still smelling of sunshine, braided rug on the floor. Table off to the side holding an oil lamp and ash tray, closed metal box of hand-rolled cigarettes that, upon investigation, didn't seem to be made of tobacco. Inhaling deeply, he was reminded of that hippie den he and Illya had infiltrated to get a line on a new Thrush enterprise. Vaguely he wondered if Miz Jo grew her own, or one of her neighbors grew it for her. 

"No, she seems the self-reliant type, according to the sheriff and from what I can see around here. I imagine there's a nice little patch somewhere on the grounds," he said to himself, wondering in amusement to himself that HE, Napoleon Solo, had a relative who 'grew her own', and most likely rolled her own as well. Well, he assumed that was what that odd little contraption on the shelf below was intended for, what with the box of cut unbleached cigarette papers sitting alongside.

No dresser or dressing table, but a small wooden chest holding various items of clothes - a shirt, an apron, a fancy patchwork vest, a silky nightdress . Oddly enough, each piece was in a separate thin white cardboard box; from the names written across the top, it seemed these were mementos, not garments currently in use. 

THOSE garments, the ones showing hard current wear, were in the closet, an uncomfortably small grouping to a man who couldn't remember just how many suits and shirts and ties and all else he owned. A small bookcase had been tucked in there, worn and faded jeans folded neatly, five long-sleeved shirts alongside. Below, other shirts, heavier, obviously for colder weather. Boots, two pairs. A basket of socks, another of gloves. Something about those gloves seemed a little off kilter, but he didn't investigate, not then. One lone hanger at the far end, bearing a white cotton blouse, long denim skirt and denim jacket, with a cloth bag holding a pair of plain slip-on shoes hung over the hook. 

No, none of that seemed to fit with someone with the last name of Solo. His father was, and his grandfather had been, a natty dresser; his mother and the other women in his family were acknowledged to be the best-dressed, most fashionable women in town. 

That marker came back to him "Jo Solo, Faithful and Loving Wife" - {"if she was married, why still the name 'Solo'?"}

That didn't seem to fit. What seemed to fit even more awkwardly, even impossibly, with the house, the surrounds, the contents of that closet? That military-style duffle bag Illya escorted him to, pointed out to him, visible only if you already knew that back board was made to swing aside. 

"She says it's for you, but for you not to make up your mind about what to do with it, with the property, until you've read the journal, Napoleon. Still, I think you should know it is there," Illya had told him. "I would not feel comfortable otherwise."

They were of various currencies, each bundle rubberbanded together, a few still wrapped in their crisp wrappers, pile upon pile, totally filling the large bag. Napoleon looked down in shock. 

"How much . . ."}

"Three million, nine hundred, ninety five thousand, if her count is correct - depending on the rate of exchange, that would vary, and that was quite some time ago as well. It was her estimate at the time she made her notation, though perhaps based on what the previous 'owner' had told her in bragging. She states she took five thousand of the U.S. Dollars during a crop failure to keep the local town afloat, prevent foreclosures, purchase new seed for the farmers, keep the stores open. I believe she did it anonymously, which was certainly wise; it would not have done for any to have realized she had money of any degree. Previously she had used only what she had brought with her, a very small amount. If you look around, you can see she lived the simplest of lives. She worked very hard to remain invisible. And, after reading her journal, I will say that was most wise as well."

"But - WHY? HOW??"

"It is all in the journal, Napoleon, and her own words tell the story far better than I could. Read it, tomorrow."

And he did, at first finding it dull, even a little embarrassing, a shy, perhaps awkward young girl's hopes and dreams, not really finding her own place within her family. Eventually, her best friend gradually encouraging her to become more confident, more willing to reach out more boldly, be more adventurous.n 

He'd laughed at the recounting of that first swimming lesson, Jo shrilly accusing a laughing Jean of trying to drown her, that first reluctance becoming a life-long love of the water. 

It was Jean's family, or at least a distant older relative, Abby, who with her husband Morgan owned the farm in the Midwest where the two women had spent idyllic summers as youngsters, then teenagers, summers full of hard work but well-mixed with pleasure. 

The hired hand, Buddy, gentle and willing, if not up to any task that required too much reasoning, had gladly shown them all the special joys of that place - where the woodpeckers had built their nests, where the barn cat liked to hide her kittens, the best place for catching catfish in that big pond that also provided a sheltered swimming place. 

They'd been sixteen when they went with Morgan when he drove to the next county to buy a sturdy plow horse. With several likely candidates, soft-hearted Morgan had ended up with a creature that possibly was a horse, but even the embarrassed owner of the place couldn't guarantee it. It wasn't one they had been shown, but one that had shyly sidled around the corner of the barn and nudged Jo from behind. The owner tried to shoo her away, but Morgan stopped him, laughing now at the sight of the two girls making over the little thing - whatever the heck it was. "Was gonna cull her before you got here but got too busy. Don't like anyone thinking that's the kind of stock I'm breeding here! Lordy, just look at them ears!!" Well, Morgan had, and that made him laugh again, wishing Abby had been there to see the sight.

The youngster, just a foal, certainly not up to pulling a plow anytime in the near future, had rested on straw in the back of the truck, head in Jean's lap, Jo sitting alongside stroking the mottled brown skin with matching mane and tail, not neglecting those startlingly-large ears, one perked up, the other at a downward cast. Oh, there was a plow horse as well, Bertie, a sturdy placid creature who wasn't young but had a few good years left to her, trotting along behind, leading rein tied to the rear, but there was also the odd little creature who'd just been given the chance for a new future.

Abby had scolded, but then just laughed as she confessed that the 'guard dog' she'd bot that same afternoon from the man who'd come by with several for her to choose from wasn't exactly there yet either. 

"Dog? Where? Let me take a look," Morgan had said, and Buddy had opened his big hands and there was a ball of fur, black, red, tan, cream, every color imaginable, and probably just weaned, if that. 

"They was others, Morgan, big ones, with loud barks, but this one has sad eyes. And he's so little," Buddy had explained earnestly, and Morgan grumbled, but not really meaning it any more than Abby had about the foal now christened 'Brownie'. The pup, Topper, lived inside Buddy's shirt til he got too big, but even then he wasn't too far from the man. 

Well, the townfolk could have told anyone - Abby and Morgan, they took in the strays, the unwanteds - everyone knew that. And back home, Jo and Jean were finding themselves that, more and more. Perhaps if they had been willing to abandon each other, if Jo had been willing to fall in with what her family demanded - but they weren't willing to take that step, give up the love they'd found. 

He read of best friends who had came to love each other as far more than friends. Of his family, horrified, declaring the young woman, Jo, dead to them, for then and evermore. {"That must be what I remember my parents saying - not that Josephine was dead, but that she was dead to them."}. There had been demands, a staunch refusal to give in, and eventually Jo moved out, moving into the dorms at the college where she'd received a full scholarship. She and Jean studied together, worked together at the local bookstore, the coffeeshop where the crowds gathered and left sizeable tips to two personable young women with those warm smiles to welcome each newcomer. Any interaction between Jo and the family came to an end. 

Always, as they grew older, college soon to be finished, that little farm was one of their favorite shared memories, and they found themselves longing to return, and during a long road trip when they were on a celebratory trip after graduation from college, they did so. Jo had just her saved earnings, and a small amount her grandmother had given her secretly; Jean had a slightly larger amount given by a doting uncle, one of her few relatives, and a combination birthday/graduation check sent to her by her older brother, Benjamin. he had enclosed a letter, telling her not to scold for the far larger than usual amount, that he'd gotten a nice check from his latest pictures, and a healthy advance on his next photographic assignment, somewhere in Cambodia. 

While on that visit to Abby and Morgan, they had talked wistfully about finding a place of their own, just a small place, but one with some of the same features that so delighted them there. They'd even talked about maybe renting or buying a small piece of Abby and Morgan's place, building their own house there, and it seemed everyone was pleased at that notion, two more strays, unwanteds making their home on the old farm that had welcomed so many others. They'd even sat down, with Morgan and Abby and Buddy all pointing out the best spots. "But to begin with, while the building's being done, you can have that back bedroom, like before," Abby had offered kindly, and everyone had shared a glass of persimmon wine and toasted the plan and the bright future.

Then, it shifted, one page to the next - becoming a tale as wild as any he or Illya could have told. The sudden descent into violence and tragic loss and a mad search for vengence turned once again, becoming now an awakening, a searching for shelter, a place to heal her torn flesh and anguished heart, to try and make some sense of the insanity that had taken her life and torn it apart. Finally, the sad acceptance, the finding of some measure of peace in the quiet and solitude of a place that had offered her shelter before.

"I wonder sometimes, what our lives would have been if Jean's brother Benjamin hadn't had the thirst for adventure, that compulsion to photograph what no one had managed before. Well, it was true - the mercenary who'd set himself up as a warlord of that small province in Cambodia hadn't been photographed before - not him, not his atrocities, not before Ben managed it. Managed to get the photographs out of the country, but not himself. Perhaps to him that was more important, that the world might know, might somehow stop the damage being done to the people there, but I find that difficult to understand, knowing what I did about his horrifying death. 

"Was Ben a hero, or just a man letting himself be driven by an obsession? The locals called him a hero, certainly. They had stolen his torn body away from his murderers, buried him in a secret place, and honored him along with the rest of their dead. Jean called him many things, as I recall - 'idiot', 'foolhardy', but yes, she too called him a hero.

"Was my Jean a hero, as well as a sister determined to find her brother and pull him out of whatever mess he'd gotten himself into? I think so. No, I believe that with all my heart. Jean had all the courage in the world; to call her less than a hero would be demeaning to all that my beloved Jean was, had always been.

"I know I was certainly no hero. It was not heroism, I am under no such delusion. I just couldn't turn away, not when Jean was in trouble. When I got her call, I went running to find her, even though I'd never been out of the country before except in the company of family and that only to the most civilized of places. The place I ended up, the place I found my Jean - it was not civilized, at least not in the warlord's territory. He made sure of that. And after, after she died in my arms, after telling me of Ben and his death at the hands of that warlord - I was no hero then, either, only a madwoman obsessed with the fierce need for vengence. 

"And I know better than anyone that my escaping with my life wasn't due to any heroism on my part, was more a matter of luck, luck and the kindness of strangers who took pity on me. The same strangers who had buried Ben, who had then taken custody of my beloved Jean and placed her next to him.

"A hero would have continued the battle, surely, not fled further and further into the shadows, terrified of being found. 

"That they would search, perhaps forever, there was no doubt. Well, how could there be? Not only had I, through a wild combination of luck and fury, and, I admit, outright feminine treachery, managed to maim and then kill their leader, I had taken their war chest, the ill-gotten gains accumulated by acts of terror and blood. It wasn't enough, not by any means, but it was all I had the strength to do. 

"And once away, where was I to go? I could hardly go home, lead them back to the family. Even before, even if I wasn't being followed - they did not approve of me, did not want anything to do with me - they hadn't before, not once they understood. They surely wouldn't now, not with me bringing unrepentent monsters down on them. 

"Sometimes I wished I had stayed with Jean and Ben, but every time I took a knife in my hand, sat down beside their graves, I could hear Jean whispering to me, promising me she would always be near, to the end and beyond. But that I had to leave, had to return to my own country, find a place to hide, to disappear.

"So I kept moving, got what medical care I could, though it wasn't easy. Most doctors, most hospitals were appalled at my injuries, wanted to involve the police, so I could do no more than get basic first aid before sneaking out the back and running again. 

"Finally I could run no more; infection had set in, which was inevitable, of course. The jungles, the fetid dampness of Cambodia, the dank hold of the ship I hid away on to return to my own land, how could I have escaped that reminder? It was as persistent, perhaps even more so, than the soldiers who had chased after me.

"Somehow, in a fevered haze, I made my way here, and here I stayed, in a place that had sheltered me in my innocent youth. Had sheltered both myself and my Jean during that precious time before the word came about Ben. 

"Morgan and Abby took care of me, accepted my warning, my pleas to keep my presence, my identity quiet. Eventually Buddy let it slip, but since all that sweet man knew was that I was 'Jo', and that I'd been sick, no one questioned too much. Abby let a word fall here and there, just enough, and before long I was 'poor Jo', a niece of Morgan's third cousin, who'd been in a dreadful accident "she can't even talk about it, so please be kind and don't ask her." They put it about that even after I recovered, well, as much as I could, I was shy to the point of hardly being able to speak, and that worked well. 

"The townspeople had accepted them taking in Buddy when he wandered down the road so long ago, and really, most any stray that came along; it seemed natural enough them taking me in as well. They didn't recognize me from those few sweet weeks we'd spent before; Jean and I hadn't gone about much, and I was quite changed, of course. 

"I'd been a child, then later a bright, laughing young woman, happy and rejoicing in the day and the company, back then. Now, I was so, so much older - not in age, for not that much time had passed, only a very few months since my last visit, but my hair was streaking with gray, the scars on my face not causing anyone to really look too closely. 

"I took care to keep my hands, my arms covered. While a couple of scars on the face might not arouse questions, having easily been gotten in that so-called accident, the others certainly would. He had enjoyed himself, that warlord, marking me much as he had Ben, as he had my Jean. Knife, razor, his ever-present cigar. No, those would be far too memorable, especially if anyone came asking. That those gloves held two fingers that seemed oddly stiff, well, that could be put down to my 'accident'. That the 'fingers' were really cotton wool formed into something of a similar shape to replace what I no longer possessed, that was something no one could know. He had been, among other things, eager for that gold ring Jean had placed on my finger, and the one left me by my grandmother; he was not willing to be gentle in obtaining either, preferring the direct approach, and a knife is so very, very direct.

"And so I stayed, regaining strength to help with the work, taking on more and more as first Buddy, then Morgan eventually passed on. We buried them in the cemetery out back, as later I buried Abby. It was there my memories of Jean lay as well, and I spent one winter carving out the marker for her memorial grave, along with the actual one for Abby. I have already started my own marker, for it is important to me that it be right. The sawmill delivered the wood planks yesterday; from those I will make my coffin. I learned how when Morgan made Buddy's; Abby and I worked together to make Morgan's, and Abby so carefully tucked in his favorite quilt that I had tears in my eyes. I made the one for Abby by myself, and tucked her away in a coverlet made from Morgan's old flannel shirts. It seemed that would keep her safe, warm and comfortable, along with being beside him as she'd been for most of their lives.

"Topper was next, and lay next to Buddy as they both would have wanted, and finally, sweet-natured if decidedly odd-looking Brownie. I really thought I had taken on too much with burying Brownie, but sheer determination made me persist, that and the knowledge that Brownie too was family, and finally it was done. It was done, and I was alone. Except for my sweet Jean, of course. And except for the other heroes, the ones I would not have recognized as being that in my youth perhaps - Morgan and Abby, Buddy, Brownie and Topper - all heroes in their own quiet way, now sleeping in that small graveyard."

The last few pages would haunt him forever, he thought. The calmness shone through, even if some of the words made no sense at the time, made him wonder if the madness hadn't returned.

"I finally finished the grave today. It took a full week, each day a little deeper, til I was using the ladder to make my way down and back up, assisted by a rope tied to the willow tree. I should say, MY grave, but it sounds truly odd to describe it that way, no matter the truth of it. 

"It is positioned beside my Jean, of course. I can only trust in the kindness of Sheriff Logan to make that happen, but as he is dear Abby's nephew, I believe he will carry out my wishes as I have written them. He may puzzle over my marker, but I doubt he will think to change it or hers - 'Beloved Wife', 'Devoted Wife'.

"I can only hope we are left to lie there in peace; it would profit no one and only confuse the rude one who would think otherwise. While my body will be there, of my sweet Jean there is only what I had left of her - the memories, the few things I was able to gather before I fled the pursuers. Well, except for the photographs, one or two other cherished bits that I keep beside me in my room here. I will ask my nephew, Napoleon, to collect those and lay them to rest between us. For now, though, I will leave them for him to discover. Maybe they will help him to understand the odd, sweet and sad trail of our lives.

"What will he be like, this nephew I never knew? I can only hope he is someone with the kindness of heart to understand. As he is my brother's child, that may well be a forlorn hope, but perhaps not. I don't even know why I chose him, chose anyone, really. Why I decided to reveal the story. 

"I could have easily burned the suitcase and its contents, had started to do so a hundred times over the years. I could have moved my rocking chair to the side of that, my grave, ready to tumble forward when it became apparent the time was near. 

"Still, something speaks to me, tells me this is the right thing to do. No, let me be totally honest. JEAN speaks to me, urges me in this direction. She was always so wise, so honest, so brave, my dear Jean. If that is what she thinks is needful, if this nephew, this Napoleon, needs to know and understand our story, then that is what I will try to make happen.

"Well, enough of writing. Sitting here on the porch rocking away will not get that last of that manure spread over the garden patch. I'm not sure why I'm bothering, but perhaps I am wrong - perhaps we each have another season in us, that garden and me. In any case, I've been putting it off, dreading the pulling of the skid over the ground, the load on the manure fork, the pitching and turning, the ache in my back and shoulders. 

"When did I get so frail? I miss Brownie helping me in that; miss Topper prancing alongside keeping me company. It seemed unfair, though, once they were gone, to get another horse, a dog. What would become of them once I was gone? No, it would have been unfair, though it would have eased the loneliness somewhat. 

"Nephew, do you get lonely? Or are you lucky enough to have someone to stand beside you, comfort you in the long nights? If you do have someone, I beg of you, cling to them, keep them safe and never stray from them! I do not know you, and yet, increasingly it seems to feel that I should, even that I do. 

"So, for you, there is something for you to find, to make good use of. Behind a panel in the back of the pantry there is a duffle bag. Yes, the one I took with me when I fled Cambodia so long ago. Most is still there, of the four million I took as part of my revenge for my Jean's death, the death of her brother Ben. I admit I used $5000 during a crop failure several years ago - not for me, but for my neighbors, to tide them over and keep them from ruin, to purchase new seed, to keep the banks with their mortgages at bay, to keep the storekeepers here instead of moving to a more prosperous spot - to let them try to rebuild. But the rest, it is still there.

"It would please me to know the cemetary is kept unharmed, though I understand that might not be possible. Well, I suppose we will all be beyond noticing overly much. Still . . .

"Ah, enough, next I will be asking you to settle here, put down roots, let this land protect you as it protected me, and that is far too much to ask of someone about whose life I know nothing. Enough. I have work to do.

"And besides, if I am lucky, Jean will walk beside me during my chores, talk to me, keep me company, lends me her courage. She does most days, you know, just as she curls next to me in bed at night, her sweet breathing a comfort to my ear. Would that the others could walk beside me as well - Morgan and Abby, Buddy, even Brownie and Topper. Perhaps they will. I would like that."

It was a little unnerving to find himself rocking, since he'd never been that fond of rocking chairs; it had been even more unnerving to find the mate, that empty chair on the other side, was rocking in unison with his. 

It had been the laughter that had caught his attention, made him look for the source. It wasn't Illya; his partner was still inside, and besides it had been a woman's laugh, then joined by various others, then a loud bray that could only have come by equine of some nature and an answering bark.

"Napoleon, did I hear . . ." Illya stopped, frowned in concern as he saw his partner staring in disbelief. 

"Aunt Jo," Napoleon whispered. (No longer a stranger, no longer a vague 'Miz Jo', she had somehow, in his reading of that journal, BECOME 'Aunt Jo'.) "Do you see her, Illya?"

And then Illya did, an image slowly forming, the brown-haired young woman he recognized from the faded pictures inside that photo album. And others he recognized as well from the pictures labeled, in turn, 'My Jean", "Morgan", "Abby", "Buddy". Even the horse and dog had their names printed below - "Brownie", "Topper".

"But how? Why? I don't understand?" Napoleon asked, his mind still caught up in the story the journal had told - love gained, love lost. Perhaps, in the end - love regained, renewed.

"Maybe we are not meant to understand, Napoleon", Illya said, as he looked across the field, the two young women standing so close together, arms around each other's waist, the tall brown horse with the mismatched ears, the three older people standing alongside, multi-colored rough coated dog dancing around them in sheer canine joy. The image slowly faded, leaving only the empty field, the half-laden manure skid, two manure forks tossed on top.

"But surely it had to mean something," came as a cri de cour from the dark-haired man, looking at his partner in dismay.

"I did not say that it did not mean something, Napasha; only that maybe we are not meant to understand, not now." 

But somehow he thought they WERE meant to understand, that their understanding was the reason for this whole journey, this revealing of the past. Illya's hand sought for, grasped his partner's, squeezed firmly, not quite sure how to explain all of that.

And Napoleon heard a soft voice.

"Do not waste your tears for the time my love and I did not have together, nephew. Rejoice in what we DID have, as I do. It was not in vain, our journey. Yes, there was sadness and pain, but there was also joy and love, warmth and sharing. Buddy's life was made better by Morgan and Abby taking him in; theirs made better for his presence. They were there for me in so many ways, when I truly needed someone; I like to think I graced their lives as well. And my Jean? She gave me love, and purpose, and faith and hope. And she kept her promises - she returned for me, TO me, when the time was right. Keep the journal, read it, understand. Rejoice in what YOU have, knowing your own journey is not in vain."

And Napoleon did the only thing he could do, wrap his arms around Illya in gratitude - gratitude for his being there, for being distinctly 'him'. Gratitude that they'd realized what they meant to each other and had the courage to reach out and fulfil that promise. For whatever time they had, time they would spend together. 

Eventually they settled down, one in each rocking chair, listening to the sounds as day turned to dusk, and then to night. And in that time, somehow, he knew he had found what he had been lacking - an answer to what truly makes a hero, and how to accept what life had given him, how to accept what life asked of him.

And he would be keeping the farm. Oh, he might not be able to do more than visit it now and again, but he would keep it. Maybe the sheriff would know someone who could keep an eye on the place in the meantime, perhaps in return for use of the land, the house, until Napoleon could do that himself. At least the cemetery would be kept in repair, as would the house; he'd see to that. And as it had sheltered his Aunt Jo and the people she loved, hopefully it would shelter him and the one he loved as well. 

He was no farmer, would likely never be one, though he could see himself and Illya tending that kitchen garden, and later, sitting here, listening to the sounds as day turned to dusk, then to night. Eventually, maybe they'd join the heroes who slept in the small graveyard in the back; that was a strangely comforting thought, and he thought Illya would find it so as well. 

But for now, after he settled things here, he would return to the task of keeping the bad guys at bay, he and his partner. They would do what they could to keep the world turning, they would cherish each other and what time they were given. For now, that was enough.

The farm and all it offered, it would wait for them; he could hear it whispering that in his ear, that it would wait. Somehow, he thought that was his Aunt Jo's voice, with her Jean's echoing in the background.


End file.
